A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

Jacques was waiting downstairs for her, his face creased and anxious.

‘Mademoiselle, there are those who say the French are coming,’ he told her. ‘It would be best for you to leave. If they discover you are English...’

She put up her hand.

‘I am staying. I do not believe this is anything more than rumour.’ But if it should be true? She might have to leave quickly. ‘However, you can fetch my horse from the livery stables and put it in the little barn at the edge of the gardens. In this present climate I would not be surprised if someone made off with it.’

* * *

Jacques hurried away and Mary went into her sitting room. A number of letters lay on her desk, including three from outraged parents informing her that they had heard of her behaviour at the Duchess’s ball and would not be sending their children back to the Rue Haute. She was not surprised. It would be all over Brussels by now that she had thrown herself at the earl, that she was his mistress. Acceptable for a high-born lady, perhaps, but not for a lowly teacher. She would have to close the school. Best to do it now, while only the dozen girls she had sent to Antwerp were still in her care.

Mary sat down at her desk. She must write to their families. Her staff would continue teaching the children in Antwerp until their parents could fetch them. In the meantime she would close up the Brussels schoolhouse and sell it, if she could find a buyer.

And after that? Mary stared at the blank sheet of paper on the desk before her. She had a little money, enough to live

on for a while, until everyone had forgotten her. Then she would open another school. In Paris, perhaps. Her French was impeccable and she was confident some of her father’s old friends there would help her. Or England. In the north country, far away from any of Randall’s estates. What did it matter where she went now? What did anything matter?

A tear dripped on to the paper and she dashed a hand across her eyes.

‘Oh, do not be such a ninny,’ she scolded herself. ‘This melancholy will pass soon enough and then you will care very much, if you have not made provision for yourself.’

She raised her head when she heard the knocker, and deep voices in the hall. Her heart leapt. It was Randall. Quickly she wiped her eyes and rose, shaking out her skirts.

‘Oh.’ Her soaring spirits plummeted. ‘Bertrand. Good day to you.’

If he noticed her disappointment Bertrand Lebbeke gave no sign of it.

‘I am on my way from the hospital and saw the schoolhouse was inhabited. You should have left Brussels by now, Mary.’

She spread her hands. ‘As you see, I am still here. I sent the children to Antwerp, the school goes on there without me.’ She invited him to sit down. ‘Is there any news? Any real news, I mean, rather than the incessant rumours that Jacques brings me.’

‘Well, the French are not yet at the gates,’ he said, smiling a little.

‘And was yesterday’s action decisive?’

He shook his head. ‘I do not think so. The Allies fought bravely, although the artillery did not arrive in time to protect them.’

So Randall did not fight yesterday. He was safe. Mary’s relief was so great it made her feel light-headed and it was an effort to concentrate upon Bertrand’s next words.

‘Brussels is overflowing with wounded soldiers,’ he said gravely. ‘The hospital is full, we have been working all night, but the number of injured men requiring attention grows by the hour.’ With a stab of remorse Mary realised how tired he looked as he rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘Many are being tended in the streets. The mayor has made an appeal for bedding and supplies to be brought to the Grand Place. Perhaps you have not heard. They need food, bandages, anything that can be spared.’

She said guiltily, ‘I have not been out of doors since—since Thursday, I did not know it was so...’ She sat up straighter in her chair. ‘You could use this house, if you wish. The dormitories are empty, the beds are free. We could house a dozen or more here.’

‘Do you mean it?’ He brightened. ‘It would make a difference.’

‘Then it is at your disposal.’ She stood up, glad to have something positive to do. ‘Therese and Jacques will help me to clear away anything the girls might have left behind.’

‘It is very kind of you, Mary. When do you expect your pupils to return?’

‘They are not coming back. I am closing the school.’

‘Ah. You are marrying Lord Randall.’

‘No, that is not it at all.’ She went back to the desk, avoiding his eyes as she straightened the pens and closed the lid of the inkwell. ‘I have decided to move on, once the battle here is over.’

Bertrand was watching her.

‘It is over, then, you and your English milord?’